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When you look in the mirror,
What do you see? Do you see your spirit? Can you say, “I’m happy with me.” Look into your eyes, Lock in the gaze, Stare down your demons. Smile. You can do it. Smile. Don’t let the pain win. Smile. There you go. You’re beautiful when you smile. The tear running down your cheek Is not of sadness, but of happiness. Your smile fractured your depression, Opened the gates to freedom You’ve kept closed in fear. The gate is open. You’re free to smile, To be contagious, To spread your happiness To a world that has been waiting. Start and end your days with a smile. Be happy with you.
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Her story was a mystery
Littered with a paper trail Of clues, passion and heartbreak. She was taking risks For selfish reward To overcome dissatisfaction. Her eyes never lied. She was in love With lust for another. An affair, now a drug, An addiction, now a cheat, A stabbing, now a death. Penetrating the only love She had ever known, Giving death to a lifetime. She would feel sorrow. She would feel loss. Her guilt would burn her soul. She’d never love again, Her path dotted with Blood of a broken heart. The weight of her betrayal Drained her spirit for life, Dying a lonely old widow. I’ve worn knee socks
On the basketball court, Ankle socks on the track, Dress socks with my suit. I’ve used socks to hold Marbles and change. Socks aren’t only for feet- Head socks and wind socks. A man at the beach Wears socks with sandals. Don’t wear socks with sandals! The beach is a sock-free zone. I resist wearing socks. I see no need. Free your feet. It’s great for your soles. Is it loyalty,
Dedication, Or punishment? Is it fear, Dependence, Or intimidation? Falling asleep, Dreaming, Waking to the same day. Punching the clock, Going through the motions, Day after day. Trapped in the job, Your mind, Molded by routine. Punch out, Collect a check, Pay the bills. Save a buck or two, No interest earned, Something, better than nothing. Drive home, Kick back, Watch the evening news. A hot meal, On a tv tray. The war continues. A game show, A sitcomb, Too much reality tv. In bed by nine, 3 AM comes quickly, Waking to the same day. |
Robert Stanhope
Writer and photographer. Archives
December 2022
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